


Chasing Sea Foam

by medusine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Masturbation, Merperson Sex, Mutual Pining, Old Age, Oral Sex, Past Madi/John Silver, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sharks, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 14:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19252960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a pirate Captain whose moods controlled the seas and whose grief over his missing Lord drove him to wreak havoc in the West Indies.Once upon a time, there was a merperson who saved the pirate Captain from drowning and who longed to be a part of his world. One day he was faced with a terrible decision: to see his Captain bring death and destruction onto the world and himself, or to stop him and reunite him with his missing Lord. The merperson made his choice and disappeared into the sea.Years after his Happily Ever After, Flint sets out to find answers about Silver guided only by tall tales and a longing in his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With illustrations by beltthesea, a wonderful partner, whose beautiful work inspired me through dry spells and writer's block. Thank you so much!

When Silver dragged himself through the porthole of a providential ship, hungry teeth snapping at his heels, the only thing that had mattered was his own survival. They'd set sharks on him, and he'd been trying to shake them from his trail for days. Silver could barely believe his luck. Of course, he couldn't have guessed that only hours later the ship would be attacked by pirates and his life cast into turmoil once again.

By the time the _Walrus_ attacked his newfound safe haven, Silver had got his bearings and stolen clothes to make himself look halfway human. Unfortunately he hadn't been able to make himself look charming enough for the ship's cook to show him any lenience. Silver wasn't much good in a fight, but luck had been on his side again – in the form of an explosion going off just when he'd managed to wrest the cook's sword out of his hands. He hadn't _wanted_ to kill him, hadn't even planned on running him through, but it was probably the best outcome Silver could have imagined.

Probably. He knew sailors and he knew pirates, and he knew life with the latter was only slightly better than with the former. It was far superior to treading into fiercely guarded territories and being chased away by his own people. There were opportunities in a pirate's life, opportunities that could give him a life away from men, away from the water. Away from people like Flint.

And here he was now, dashing after a sinking body, following the trail of blood and bubbles it left in its wake. The water vibrated with the sound of cannons and crashing debris. As Silver swam deeper, and the water darkened around him, those sounds turned to dim echoes. It was peaceful down here, far from the world of men.

Silver caught up to Flint, grabbed his heavy coat to keep him from sinking further. For what felt like hours but could only have been brief seconds, Silver marvelled at this man. This enraged, bloodthirsty tyrant who'd bashed Singleton's brains in for a page he knew Silver had stolen. This pirate who'd tracked Silver down, only to show him mercy of a sort – cruel and precarious, the promise of gold or of a slit throat. This deranged bastard who'd just killed his quartermaster and friend with his bare hands.

But now Flint was at peace, eyes closed, features serene. His hair floated around his head in a coppery halo, his arms drifting up in the water. The sight reminded Silver of a figure he had seen many times, bound to a cross, the object of faith and devotion. Was this how Flint saw himself, a martyr to whichever insane cause he'd chosen to follow?

([illustration by beltthesea](https://beltthesea.tumblr.com/post/185659580845/but-now-flint-was-at-peace-eyes-closed-features))

Silver kicked off, gripping Flint tight and beating at the water with all his might to reach the surface. He'd never done this before, never beleaguered himself with anything or anyone, let alone what was likely a corpse. How much time had passed since Flint had sunk? How much since he'd last breathed?

But Flint was still warm where his face pressed into the crook of Silver's neck. Silver clung to that. Flint couldn't be dead. How could such a man give up so close to his goal and let the sea claim his life? Silver wouldn't allow it. He too needed that fucking gold and if anyone was going to help him find it, it was Flint.

The air burned Silver's lungs when he finally surfaced and drew breath through his mouth. He pulled Flint's head out of the water, but the man lay limp in his arms, showing no sign of breathing.

Men didn't understand drowning. Silver had cringed many a time seeing sailors attempting to revive a drowned man by shaking him, hanging him upside down, bleeding him, and even blowing tobacco smoke up his arse. None of that worked. Silver's mother had taught him in a past nearly all forgotten to use the secrets of her people instead of trusting men's methods. If a man was to return from drowning, he needed lungs free of water, and a beating heart and, most of all, air.

Silver had plenty of that. He pried Flint's jaw open, surprised to find it clenched so tight. There was barely any water in Flint's mouth; Silver didn't waste any time wondering why.

“You'd better not be dead, you fucking bastard,” Silver hissed at him, pressing his mouth to Flint's and closing off Flint's nose. He blew down Flint's throat, pressed tight against him, feeling the air fill Flint's chest. As he finished blowing, he slid his hand down Flint's shirt. There was a faint heartbeat.

There was no time for more. Silver barely managed to dodge before a cannon went off close to them. He hauled Flint onto his back and kicked the water hard. Flint's head lolled into the crook of Silver's shoulder and Silver hated how intimate it felt, how much he perversely enjoyed this intimacy, how aware he was of his lips tingling where Flint's beard had grazed them.

Silver swam as fast as he could, picking his way through debris and corpses. He passed a few sailors still hanging onto life, hugging scraps of timber to stay afloat. None of them paid him much mind. In the distance, Silver could make out a whole group assembling on a makeshift raft. Dufresne and DeGroot were on there. He gave them a wide berth.

Land wasn't all that far, shores covered with swampy vegetation. Silver dragged Flint onto the closest beach, wriggling uncomfortably on the sand when they got above the waterline. Flint still wasn't breathing on his own.

“Come on you fucker,” Silver muttered, pulling off his pendant and shuddering at the change. He needed all the momentum legs could give him. Besides, pirates would be less shocked to see him bare-arsed on the beach than in his other form.

Silver pressed his ear to Flint's chest. His heart still thumped dimly behind his ribs; the sound sent a wave of relief through Silver. He shifted upwards, tilting Flint's head back and breathing into him once again. It wasn't a kiss, Silver told himself.

It wasn't a kiss, but the thought had crossed his mind. Many thoughts, insane thoughts, had gone through Silver's mind since he'd met Flint. Lust had bubbled up in his belly at the sight of Flint's smile, of his razor-sharp teeth, of his face covered in blood. Silver's body had responded not with terror but with arousal at being flung against the rocks and ensnared in Flint's grip. Silver had spent his life fleeing danger, and now he was desperately trying to revive a man who would likely kill him as soon as look at him.

Flint's lips shifted beneath Silver's as he drew in a rattling breath. Silver moved back, heart bashing in his chest, to see Flint throw his head back and cough hoarsely, his eyes still half-closed.

“Good,” Silver told him, sliding a hand beneath Flint's back so as to raise his chest as Flint coughed and drew in rattling breaths in turn, rubbing it in soothing circles. “That's right, just breathe.”

“Thomas,” Flint rasped. He moved forward, pressing his forehead into Silver's shoulder, one hand coming up to cup the back of Silver's neck. Silver froze under the impossibly tender press of Flint's body against his, but then his grip reflexively tightened around Flint's back. Silver wasn't familiar with this sort of touch at all, especially not from a man like this.

“Thomas,” Flint murmured again, his voice fainter. He pushed back as though to look at Silver's face. Panic rushed through Silver as he imagined what Flint would see instead of whoever Flint was calling so softly. A bedraggled urchin with a soaking shirt plastered to him, trousers tied around his waist and barely hiding his lower half. Certainly not the sight Flint was hoping to behold.

But Flint's heavy-lidded eyes were barely cracked open. Silver saw a glimpse of blue-green, and then Flint gave a groan and slumped back into the sand, blood pooling beneath his wounded shoulder.

Silver knelt beside him, a storm of questions roiling in his mind, the imprint of Flint's fingers burning on the nape of his neck.

* * *

“Thomas?”

There was a void in Flint's bed where he expected Thomas to have been, silence where soft snores should have filled the air, cold where warmth usually resided.

“Did I wake you?” Thomas asked from his seat by the fire.

Flint shook his head, though it was a lie. Ten years had passed since he'd been reunited with Thomas, yet the panic of losing him still lurked in Flint's heart. Perhaps it had even grown, now that Thomas' hair was streaked with grey and his aching bones woke him at night.

“Do you need some liniment?” Flint asked, sliding out of bed.

“I've already procured some,” Thomas told him with a smile, holding up a pot of salve. “You really don't need to get up, love.”

Flint took no heed and dragged a blanket along with him, wrapping it around Thomas' shoulders before settling beside him on the bench by the fireplace. Flint didn't like to see Thomas out of bed in his chemise in the middle of winter. Men had caught their death for less than that.

“Maybe we should find a warmer place to live,” Flint said, drawing the pot of salve from Thomas' fingers and opening it. He swiped through the pungent-smelling liniment and began rubbing it into the fingers of Thomas' left hand.

“I like Boston,” Thomas said. “There's plenty going on here.”

Flint made a non-committal grunt as he worked the salve into Thomas' skin. Thomas certainly knew how to keep himself busy – and to take a seemingly innocuous conversation just to the edge of rabble-rousing before stepping back and watching it change the way men thought. Give him enough time, and he'd start a revolution.

“Where else would we go?” Thomas asked. “I can't imagine either of us wants to go to Charles Town, and I've no desire to get a taste of the diseases that plague the West Indies.”

“You're not wrong,” Flint conceded, finishing with Thomas' fingers. His right hand and wrist were next, then perhaps his shoulders. Years of hard labour had made Thomas strong, but had also taken a toll on his joints.

“Tell me a story,” Thomas said. “Tell me about your silver fish.”

“You know I don't like talking about him.”

“That may be, but he also haunts your every waking moment.”

“Not _every_ waking moment,” Flint grumbled, feeling colour rise in his cheeks.

Thomas laughed, stroking Flint's face with his unanointed hand. “I'll go back to bed if you tell me a story.” He waggled his eyebrows enticingly. “I might even get some more sleep.”

Flint scoffed and caught Thomas beneath the elbow to help him stand. They tumbled into bed together – Flint barely managed to prevent the jar of salve from ruining their bedsheets – and Thomas curled up under the blankets, letting only his hands stick out so that Flint could massage them.

“Once upon a time, a little silver fish appeared out of nowhere and made a pirate captain's life infinitely more difficult,” Flint began.

Thomas' eyes glittered with mirth as he prepared to ask the question he always asked. “Was he a pretty little fish?”

“He was an annoying one,” Flint snapped back. “Didn't know when to shut up.” He could feel Thomas looking at him pointedly, waiting for a proper answer. “He was ridiculously pretty,” Flint conceded, rolling his eyes. “Smooth golden skin, eyes as blue as a summer sky, and long dark curls. He'd obviously done some hard work in his life, although it was abhorrent to him, because he was broad of shoulder, and lean, and muscular.”

Flint looked up to find Thomas smiling at him, mischief in his eyes.

“And no, the thought of taking him to bed didn't cross the Captain's mind at the time. He was very, very busy chasing a treasure galleon and fighting off a mutiny. And so was the silver fish, though his interference was probably what started the mutiny in the first place.”

“Of course, to be sure,” Thomas said with a smirk. He had heard this story many a time, and had likely gathered enough elements by now to know that Flint had been mostly at fault for it. Not that he'd admit it, even now.

“Anyway. When the Captain found himself drowning, all hope lost, the little fish dived into the deeps to rescue him. He dragged the Captain onto the beach, breathed his siren's breath into him with a kiss, and brought him back to the world of the living.”

“I really do wish I could send him a thank-you note for that.”

Flint's face twitched uneasily. “The only thank-you he got for that was me calling him by your name.”

Thomas threw his head back and laughed. “So gauche!”

“I was half-dead!” Flint chuckled a little. “But even though the Captain was rather cruel to the little fish, and used him as a pawn to keep his crew in check, when it came to the crunch, the little fish chose to remain with the Captain and his crew. He lost half his tail to save the crew, and still he stayed, and still he dragged the Captain out of deep water time and again.”

“I'm sure that's because he was profoundly enraptured by the Captain who refused to take him to bed, at this point.”

“Perhaps.” Flint heaved a sigh. “The Captain grew very fond of him, and hoped that the feeling was mutual, even as he still pined for the love he had lost. The silver fish said little about himself, about what was going on in the depths of his heart, as though he'd been cursed to only show the glistening surface of the sea rather than its depths.”

Thomas smiled. “You've really perfected your metaphors, haven't you.”

“One day, though, he was asked to kill the Captain, if he was to stop a war that he dreaded. He found that he could not, and instead he let the Captain live out his days with his lost love, disappearing from his life like as much sea foam disappearing on the waves.”

“Such drama, when he could just as soon have joined us,” Thomas said with a tut, tucking his hands away under the sheets again.

Flint tried to laugh, but his chest clenched as it always did when he thought of those words written in Madi's elegant hand. For a moment he sat still and silent on the bed beside Thomas. “I wish I knew where he was now. At least when he was still in the Bahamas, Madi could keep me appraised. It's been long now since he left.”

“Well, perhaps you should try and find him, then.”

“I don't see how I could.” Flint curled up beside Thomas on the bed, a familiar emptiness gnawing at him.

“James. You've been collecting books and newspapers and stories with a very clear intent. I've seen you actually ask people in pubs to tell you stories, and I know how much you dislike speaking to people.”

Flint shrugged. “It's just curiosity.”

“Is it, though? Or are you looking for clues about him? Trying to guess his whereabouts from sailors' tales?”

Flint said nothing. He couldn't deny it. Silver was an enigma, his very existence unlikely, and what he had done before he'd disappeared from Flint's life – well. There were times when Flint still raged about that. They were becoming few and far between, though, and the more the rage subsided, the more another feeling emerged. It wasn't one that Flint cared to examine too closely, not now that he was settled with Thomas.

Apparently, Thomas was reading his mind – or perhaps Flint's face betrayed him. With a smile, Thomas snaked his arm around Flint and drew him closer, pressing tender kisses to his temple. Flint melted into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Thomas and holding him tight, heaving a great sigh.

“One day, James,” Thomas said into his ear, “one day you'll need to go out there and find him. I'm not getting any younger, and you don't seem to be getting any older.”

Those words sent a sickening shudder through Flint, though it wasn't the first time Thomas mentioned it. Thomas often swore Flint appeared older or younger depending on his mood. Thomas swore Flint didn't age at all. Neither his beard nor his hair showed the first signs of white. Sickness barely touched him, old wounds healed fully. The implications of this were as mysterious as they were terrifying.

“Good, I see you take my point,” Thomas said, a smile in his voice. “Listen, my love. I'd rather you found your silver fish while I'm still young enough to do well during your absence. And also to appreciate meeting your slippery friend when you find him.”

“We'll see,” Flint mumbled against Thomas' throat. Yet trepidation was already growing inside of him, along with the hope of finally resolving the mystery that had been eating at him for over a decade.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only after John Silver had sorted out the crew, after he'd let Billy say his piece, that he allowed himself to disappear into one of the darkest holds in the _Walrus_ ' belly. There, he collapsed heavily onto the floor and dissolved into anguished sobs.

There was some comfort in the stifling, stale darkness of the hold. At least he couldn't see his mangled body in the dark. At least here he could pretend that the calms, the starvation, the thirst, the increasingly insane and murderous captain, were all a bad dream. He'd become rather good over the years at pretending to be elsewhere, even as tears soaked the shirtsleeve in which he'd buried his face.

What had become of him, since he'd met Flint? What madness had possessed him to be willing to give his life to save a crew that knew nothing of him? How had he allowed them to mutilate him rather than reveal himself and flee the goddamned ship while he still could?

At some point, being a part of the crew, being listened to by these men, being close to fucking Flint had become one of Silver's priorities. At some point while Silver was manipulating them, he'd grown attached to them. They'd become family of sorts, and miserable as it was, it was the only family he'd ever have.

He'd been hopeful, at first, after the amputation. He healed faster and better when he turned, after all. Perhaps he'd have the ability to grow back the flesh that had been removed. But when he'd finally had the privacy to change, all he'd found was a jagged, rotting wound and half his tail missing. It was just as bad as when he was in his human form. He might heal from the inflammation, but he'd never be whole again. As if he hadn't been enough of a freak of nature to begin with.

And now they were becalmed, and going mad, and they were all going to die anyway. What good had his sacrifice been? What good was he to the men?

Choking for air, Silver drew himself up. Dim light started to fill the hold as sunrise approached, casting strange shadows into the room. His eyes fell on a pale figure standing by a porthole, looking out at the sea. Silver blinked, dizzied by the vision. It was the Barlow woman.

Silver froze, torn between terror and fascination. He'd never seen a spirit before; they had been the stuff of stories whispered at night in the orphanage in Whitechapel, a thrill of fright to ward off the true horrors of that place. Or perhaps – perhaps thirst and hunger were addling his mind.

Silver had glimpsed Mrs Barlow's face the previous afternoon. Flint's pistol had been trained on Mr Oates, and for a brief moment the man's features had turned into hers – blood dripping down her cheek, dark eyes wise and fearless before Flint took the shot. The thought of that scene still made Silver's heart squeeze with despair.

Perhaps she was only a figment of his imagination, but Mrs Barlow turned to Silver and gave a small, strangely comforting smile. There was no blood on her face, no brains matting her hair. She was the woman Silver remembered – and had envied, and hated, and been infinitely curious about – from their voyage to Charlestown.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Silver hissed at her. The sound of his own voice in this dark place made him cringe. “Haven't you done enough? Why are you haunting him?!”

Mrs Barlow tilted her head to one side, eyes glinting thoughtfully.

Silver floundered, trying to get himself off the floor. His boot skidded on the planks until he found his footing and then he lurched as he tried to push himself upright. It was like walking on fucking knives.

“He gave you everything you wanted!” Silver ground out, digging his fingers into a crate to help himself straighten up. “He gave up the treasure, sacrificed the fucking freedom we could all have had, for you! And now you're tormenting him?” And then he remembered, he remembered the stories about Mrs Barlow being a witch, controlling Flint, controlling the ship's luck. “Is this becalming some kind of vengeance?!”

In the blink of an eye, she vanished. Another blink, and Mrs Barlow was standing inches away from Silver. It took all his resolve not to jerk away from her. The hair on the back of his neck prickled; cold sweat and gooseflesh covered his back. But her features were gentle. There was nothing vengeful there. Her hands reached up as though to cup his face, but never quite touched him.

 _It's his doing_ , Silver thought. Or perhaps the thought had been planted into his mind. He recalled the raging storm that had followed Flint's fury, the sudden stillness of the water as Flint sagged under the weight of his own despair. Silver recalled the half-addled words he'd spoken to Billy a few days ago, and was more than ever convinced that they were true. It was all Flint's doing.

He looked into Mrs Barlow's eyes again and understood. She wasn't haunting Flint. Flint's grief and despair were keeping her here. Flint needed someone to lean on, someone to trust, if he was ever to heal from this. Mrs Barlow smiled wanly as the thought formed in Silver's mind, merging with what Billy had told him earlier. Flint needed an equal. A partner.

Silver's head was spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and when he opened them again, the apparition had gone. He wasn't sure whether she ever truly had been there at all, or whether heat and hunger and thirst had made him see things. It didn't matter.

He hobbled back up from the hold, a sudden sense of purpose burning in him. Flint might be content leaving the crew to die, to let them all waste away, but he wouldn't let it happen. That was the first step – getting them back on track. Now he knew what he had to do, but it was risky; he might not be able to conceal his true nature from the crew any longer. Still, if it meant keeping them alive, perhaps it was worth it.

Flint was back on the deck when Silver emerged from the galley, slumped against a crate, staring blankly ahead. Damn the man. Why couldn't he have kept to his cabin, as he usually did? For a brief moment their gazes met in the gloomy twilight. Flint's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Never had he let his grief and despair so close to the surface. Silver knew, then, that he had to act now or never, before Flint sank them all.

He walked past Flint, making for the railings. Flint's gaze weighed heavy on him, made shivers run up his spine, but Silver wouldn't let it deter him. He leaned on the railing and rolled up his trouser leg to unbuckle the boot. It took quite an effort to pull the stump free, and the putrid stink rising from it made Silver want to retch.

“What're you doing?” Flint asked from his dark corner.

“Scouting for food.”

There was a moment of silence, then Silver heard Flint draw himself up. It sounded like a terrible effort. Silver tried to ignore it, hurrying to remove his belt and trousers.

“I must have misheard.” Flint had sidled up beside him just as Silver dropped his trousers onto the deck. Flint was so close that Silver could feel the heat coming off him. “You're going to dive in there? To find food?”

“Yes,” Silver snapped back. “Someone has to save us from starvation. If you can't do it, I will.”

Flint's nostrils flared, his mouth twisted bitterly. “You're delirious,” he murmured at last. “I'll get Howell.”

The moment he turned away from Silver, Silver hurriedly tied his pendant around his neck and pulled himself onto the railing. Flint turned around, eyes widening, but Silver didn't give him time to get a good look – he leaned back and dropped head-first into the sea. Flint shouted out, but his cry was cut off by the slap of the water.

Silver should have done this ages ago. The cool water was incredibly soothing after so much time stuck in the hot, stinking ship. Although the salt burned Silver's mangled tail, he still sank gratefully into the depths. He was in his element now.

As he'd expected, he found few fish around the Walrus. The eels that had lived in these waters had become cautious, and the patches of seaweed that made the Sargasso sea so vibrant were nowhere to be found around them.

Silver flared his nostrils, trying to pick up a scent, any scent at all. There was something faint, a long way away, a scent both revolting and mouthwatering. He noted the direction, tried to discern what he was smelling.

A heavy splash above Silver startled him. He looked up to see a rope curling on the water's surface, and realised how this must have looked to Flint. He swam up, and found himself staring into a face contorted with horror. He gave Flint what he hoped would look like an ingratiating grin.

Horror turned to pure fury. “Come up right now!” Flint hissed.

Silver had to remind himself to clap shut the gills on the sides of his neck and to breathe with his lungs before he could answer. “No!” he called back in a loud whisper. “I still need to investigate. I'll be fine!”

He let himself sink again, the water in his ears drowning out Flint's profanities. When he felt deep enough that Flint wouldn't clearly see his tail, he flipped around and swam deeper. A shoal of tunafish barrelled by. They were huge and powerful, likely too powerful for anyone on the Walrus to wrestle, now that they were all weak and exhausted.

Still, if they had bait, it would be worth a try.

Silver's mind went back to the revolting scent that still permeated the water, even though it was distant. Something large was rotting close by. That could serve as bait, without taking any food away from the sailors.

He emerged from the water, unfastening his pendant and tying it to his shirt's buttons. His stump throbbed worse than ever after the transformation, and he didn't relish the thought of having to climb up the side of the ship. But being in the water had refreshed him and kindled a spark of hope. He grabbed the rope and used it to heave himself up.

Flint watched his every movement, eyes burning quietly, reflecting the colours of dawn. The harsh morning light emphasised every hollow on his gaunt face. His upper lip hadn't uncurled from its furious sneer.

“So?” Flint growled, grabbing Silver's shirt and tugging him over the railing. Silver was grateful for the help, but not for the jostling, which made him smack his stump against the side of the ship. He bit back a cry.

“Plenty of fish in there,” Silver gasped. “Tuna. They're huge.”

“You know we don't have bait.”

“Well there's a carcass somewhere out there. That could be something.”

For a split second, Silver saw a flicker of curiosity in Flint's eye, before his face turned stony again. “How the fuck would you know that?” he drawled.

“Trust me–”

Flint made an ugly snort and shook his head.

Memories flashed through Silver's mind, of feverish dreams and anguished moans soothed by steady hands and soft words. He remembered waking in Flint's cabin, horrified at his state, and the gentle, friendly smile on Flint's face. And then Silver had talked about the gold, the betrayal. Flint had closed up then and never been the same with Silver, not even after they'd brokered a deal with Rackham. Which meant it hadn't been about the gold at all. It had been about trust.

“If you ever do that again,” Flint snarled into Silver's face, “you'd better not come back.”

With that Flint stalked away, leaving Silver half-naked and dripping seawater onto the deck. Flint never saw the cracked smile that curled Silver's lips. Silver knew what he had to do now. He knew what to tell Flint. The thought was both horrifying and elating.

The carcass floated within sight of the _Walrus_ a few hours later, when the sun was high in the sky. It was a whale, long dead. Some of the crew regarded it with hope, others – the savvier ones – knew it was already rotten. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Silver found the right words to get Flint into the launch with him, and row him far from their crew.

As it turned out, the right words were an order. It formed on Silver's weary lips with a grim sort of resolve.

“I'm one of two men who've been on full rations for the last few days,” Silver told Flint firmly. “You're the other. Let's go.”

And Flint had followed. It was frightening, in a way, how easily Flint had bowed to Silver. Perhaps it was a boon, that Flint was so weak. Perhaps it would make it easier for Silver to either prove to Flint that they were equals, or face the wrath of his Captain once and for all. It couldn't be worse than before.

As they approached the great carcass, Silver stopped rowing, and spoke the truth. Every word was measured. He'd rehearsed it in his mind, imagined how he might answer Flint's questions, how to formulate it to best get into Flint's head. He'd thought of the grappling hook, and the harpoon, and kept them close at hand too.

Flint sat immobile on the launch after Silver's revelations. Silver couldn't see his face, only the trembling tension in his shoulders. Flint half-turned towards Silver, and panic shot through Silver as he reached for the grappling hook. He didn't want to have to kill Flint. He'd much rather throw himself into the water and swim away, never to be seen again. But Flint only asked a question, his voice harsh but measured. He asked why Silver had given up his share of stolen gold.

“I saw no way to hold it and remain a part of this crew,” Silver said. “And without these men, all I am is an invalid.” Tears rose in his eyes, his voice trembled as he exposed this fucking vulnerability to Flint. He was ready to flee, but Christ, it would kill him if he had to.

And then Flint settled down and started rowing again. Silver wanted to weep as tension drained out of him, but instead he took up his oars and helped them reach the stinking carcass. It wasn't long before they'd ascertained it was inedible. Silver had known it already.

He also knew what always followed great carcasses; the same bloody fuckers that had been chasing him to Parish's ship. With great effort, Silver heaved himself upright and struck the bottom of the launch, calling up the scavengers beneath. As he'd hoped, the sharks came up to investigate what they hoped would be live prey.

“We can eat those,” he told Flint, hope and a hint of pride swelling in his chest.

Silver didn't often hunt. He'd spent most of his life on dry land, and much preferred easy prey – or thieving from a passing ship's hold – to taking on anything that would put up a fight. Sharks were well out of his league. Flint, on the other hand, seemed only too eager to take up the challenge. Silver watched him standing on the launch, majestically poised above the water with a harpoon in his hand, ready to spear whatever came close enough.

The afternoon was a blur after that, made up of sweat, gore and galloping hearts. The first shark's blood induced a feeding frenzy in the other sharks, and the second one they hauled onto the small boat lunged at Flint, teeth snapping at his hands. But Flint moved away fast, suddenly strong and alive where he'd been exhausted and downcast only hours before.

In the distance, Silver could hear the Walrus crew cheering as they watched through a spyglass. He'd never expected to feel this happy in such a dire situation.

How they made it back to the ship was still a mystery to Silver, except that it had felt practically euphoric – even Flint's lips quirked into a smile when he glanced back at Silver. Then the crew were crowding them, the stronger men helping Silver up into the deck, people patting his shoulder, others staring up at him from where they lay, hope renewed on their faces.

The shark meat, moist and tender, was a piece of heaven. Silver barely breathed as he devoured the chunk of meat he was given, lost in a world of sensation after weeks of deprivation. Only when he was finished, when Billy brought him some water, did he finally look up at Flint again.

Flint was changed, his face lit with a glow that couldn't only be due to finally being fed, though he was eating heartily. He seemed at peace, slouched on the deck in the middle of the crew, instead of severely standing apart. A weight lifted from Silver's chest, and his own lips curled into a grin.

“Progress,” he murmured, more to himself than to Billy.

Now that his hunger was sated, Silver couldn't help but wonder how providence had been so kind to them. The whale could have drifted away in the opposite direction, never to even come under the scrutiny of his spyglass. Was it providence, or had his words made an impact on Flint the previous night? Was it so insane to believe that Flint could tell the sea to bring them food? No more than believing that he could cause a hurricane or a becalming, Silver supposed.

Something flapped beside Silver. He glanced up and for a brief second he saw Mrs Barlow's skirts flapping in the wind. She was standing on deck, smiling fondly at Flint. Flint didn't see her. She was gone in an instant.

But the sails continued flapping as a soft breeze picked up.

* * *

Flint stood on the cliffs, a soft breeze playing in his hair, looking out at the sea breaking on the rocks.

Ten years since he'd been here, and little seemed to have changed. The salty, dusty wind was the same, the sun hot on his shoulders. If he closed his eyes he could still hear the swish and clash of swords, feel the smack of steel on steel, and see Silver's bright blue eyes fixed on his rather than on his sword hand. He could see Silver's smile, warm and open and genuine.

His throat squeezed in his chest as the memories unfolded in his mind. More than anything else he remembered the growing fondness in his heart, a tender feeling he'd become aware of on this very island, after Silver had dragged him once more out of the depths of despair and helped him to breathe again.

Flint's eyes slid towards the rocky beaches at the bottom of the cliffs, and vivid memories pressed closer. He remembered picking his way down to one of them on a sweltering night ten years back. He remembered the tepid waters drawing him in, its soft waves welcoming him. He remembered swimming until his roiling mind found quiet, and floating on his back looking up at the moon and stars, water gurgling in his ears.

His mind had still been roiling from his conversation with Silver during that day's training. He'd prodded Silver further than was comfortable and didn't like the awkwardness that had settled between them afterwards. Flint didn't like what Silver had suggested about the senselessness of his past; it implied horrors far greater than anyone could express. And Flint didn't like the fact that, even though he suspected Silver's life had been too hard for him to bear the memory of it, he still wanted to know the truth, still keenly felt Silver's refusal to talk about it as a sign of distrust.

At some point in their relationship, Flint had grown greedy for Silver. Greedy for chances to share thoughts with him, to exchange knowing looks, to see him smile and laugh and let down his guard. And also greedy for his secrets. There had been a moment, when they'd been becalmed, where Flint thought that he'd glimpsed one of Silver's secrets. What starving man could plunge into the waters, spend that much time under, and surface with a smile, somehow no worse for the wear? But then Flint had seen things that weren't real every day when they were in the calms, so he'd dismissed it as another one of his visions.

There was movement in the water. Flint flipped back onto his belly just in time to see the flick of a long tail covered in shimmery scales. He glimpsed translucent fins emerging from the waves before the creature disappeared into the deep. It could have been anything, Flint told himself, although it looked like no fish he had ever encountered in such waters.

Silver emerged a few yards away from the place Flint had seen the fish disappear, and Flint's breath caught in his throat while his heart shot into a gallop. His first thought, base as it was, was that both he and Silver were swimming naked in the same waters. A tingle rushed down Flint's spine. This too was something that had changed since he'd grown closer to Silver; his once dormant body now yearned for long-discarded pleasures.

Although he knew it was intrusive of him to linger there, watching Silver's strong arms reaching for a rock, watching water pouring off his golden skin, watching him flick his curls as he emerged from the water, Flint couldn't tear his eyes away. Silver pulled himself onto the rock, curling up his leg beneath him as he settled down. Then he saw Flint and his eyes widened in horror. In the blink of an eye, Silver had thrown himself back into the water.

It hadn't been a leg. When Flint's brain caught up with his eyes, he remembered what he had seen that night on the _Walrus_. From his chest down, Silver's skin had seemed covered in pale scales that glistened in the moonlight. He didn't have legs but a tail, grossly distorted where a chunk of it and a fin were missing, exactly in the same place as Silver's missing leg.

([illustration by beltthesea](https://beltthesea.tumblr.com/post/185659604930/it-hadnt-been-a-leg-when-flints-brain-caught))

And now Silver was swimming away in a panic, thrashing in the waves. Flint went after him, heart racing. Silver's foot emerged from the water; Flint clearly saw his ankle, his heel, his toes, before it splashed back in, and once again he questioned what he'd just seen. If Silver wasn't what Flint suspected him to be, his sudden flight in the water was all the more worrying. What if he got lost in the dark? What if his leg gave out? What if he drowned?

“Wait!” Flint managed to call out. He was gaining on Silver, who was having trouble making progress in the water, apparently fighting a current that was dragging him back towards Flint.

Flint's hand clapped around Silver's wrist just as a wave lifted them both. Their bodies crashed together, tumbling through the water, limbs tangling as they both grasped for a purchase. The wave seemed to have no end, carrying them back towards the shore until Flint's feet bumped into the seabed and he stumbled. They spun around, Flint automatically grabbing Silver's waist to keep him upright, and finally they came to a halt, waist-deep in the water.

“You all right?” Flint asked.

“Yeah,” Silver gasped, eyes glistening in the dark, reflecting the stars above. Flint had meant to remove his hands from Silver's waist, but he didn't dare move. Silver's fingers had come to rest on Flint's upper arms. They were standing excruciatingly close, so close their thighs brushed together under the ebb and flow of the waves. No more than a breath away, and yet so far.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Flint said softly, his eyes irresistibly drawn to Silver's lips, to the beads of water dripping from his curls to his chest.

Silver gave a little shrug, his face twisting with a bittersweet smile. “It looks like I can't ever escape you, can I? Neither you, nor your sea.”

Those words reminded Flint of a conversation he'd had with Silver in the belly of the Warship. It felt as though it had happened a lifetime ago. “Do you still want to escape me?” Flint noted that Silver had made no attempt to move away – but then he was also stuck with neither his boot nor his crutch. A sickening feeling chilled Flint's stomach at the notion that Silver was effectively forced to stand here with him, when perhaps he wished to be far away.

“No.” Silver gave a little smile that made Flint breathe with relief. “I used to. Sometimes, I still do.”

“And right now?”

Silver chuckled softly, dipping his head. “You don't want to know what I want now, Captain. Though I'm afraid it's, ah, growing rather obvious.”

It was only then that Flint realised that what had been nudging his thigh was Silver's half-hard cock. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Silver sighed, his breath cooling Flint's skin and making him shiver. “Turns out I can't tell you anything about me or my past, but that…”

“Sometimes…” Tentatively, Flint drew Silver a little closer. Silver's chest and belly ghosted against his skin, and his own cock stirred at the touch. “Sometimes it's easier to let the flesh speak its own truth.”

Silver hummed in agreement and wrapped his arms around Flint's middle, bringing their bodies flush together. Flint could swear he could feel the drum of Silver's heart against his skin. Silver's breath hitched with a trembling shudder as he nuzzled the crook of Flint's neck. Something rough and a little sharp, perhaps a piece of jewellery, dangled from Silver's wrist, pleasantly tickling Flint's spine.

“Would you believe that I've been hungering for this more than for any treasure?” Silver's voice was thick and low, the most beguiling sound Flint had ever heard.

“More than for treasure? No,” Flint answered, unwilling to let himself be entirely taken in by Silver's blatant lie. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Silver laughed against Flint's skin, apparently blushing and burying himself against Flint's shoulder. Flint drew Silver's face in his hands, tilting it upwards, bending until the tips of their noses touched.

They kissed, light and tentative at first. Flint mapped Silver's mouth with his own, revelling in every little gasp, every hitch in Silver's breath. Silver's fingers trailed along his back, feather-light but sending shivers of want all through Flint's body. The kiss deepened slowly, their mouths falling open, growing bolder. Flint traced a line along Silver's parted lips with the tip of his tongue; this drew a whine from Silver and his cock grew harder against Flint's thigh.

Silver wrapped himself tighter around Flint, fingers digging into Flint's scalp, his tongue slipping into Flint's mouth. He tasted like the sea. Flint let himself drown in the kiss, hot and wet. Over and over he sought Silver's lips, sucking them, licking them, teasing them with the edge of his teeth. He let himself relish the moment, the heat pulsing into his hardening cock, the slide of Silver's wet body against his, the way Silver's hands wandered over his skin, exploring him.

Flint explored too, fingers inexorably trailing down Silver's chest and belly, until they found his cock. It was hot in the cool water, silky-slick under Flint's touch. The sound Silver made into Flint's mouth when Flint ran his fingers along his hard length was its own sort of ecstasy. Flint wanted more of those sounds, more of Silver's shuddering breath down his throat. He wrapped Silver in his fist; Silver responded with the most delicious moan.

Together they found a rhythm, kissing desperately, twining around each other so as to keep their balance. As precarious as it was, there was no thought of stopping now. Silver's hips jerked up in a counterpoint to Flint's strokes, his sounds of pleasure filling Flint's mind, making Flint's cock ache with want. Silver broke the kiss to bury his face in Flint's shoulder, teeth glancing on his skin, and Flint's hand tightened around his cock. The pace quickened, Silver feverishly fucking into Flint's fist. It wasn't long before he let out a choked cry and his cock pulsed and shuddered its release.

“Fuck,” Silver panted into Flint's ear, trembling against him, unsteady on his leg.

For a while they just stood there, Flint firmly gripping Silver's hips to keep him upright, Silver holding him tight as he recovered. Before long, Silver started to kiss him again, light and teasing and still breathless. His fingers glided down Flint's chest, down his belly, and sought out his cock. Flint drew a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. It had been so fucking long since anyone had touched him.

“So quiet,” Silver murmured against Flint's lips. “So in control, Captain.” He had the head of Flint's cock between his thumb and forefinger and was sliding his foreskin back and forth in a maddeningly slow rhythm. Flint resisted the urge to thrust forward.

“I want to make you come like you've never come before,” Silver told him, his tongue swiping along Flint's lower lip.

Butterflies fluttered in Flint's stomach. He tried to keep a straight face, to raise his eyebrows coolly, not to buck into Silver's hand. “That sounds ambitious. What do you plan on doing?”

Silver smirked and kissed him lewdly, sucking Flint's lower lip between his. “I'm notoriously good with my mouth, aren't I?” Silver waited for Flint to take a shuddering breath before he continued. “There is one condition.”

Flint looked into Silver's face, finding his eyes earnest behind the playful veneer of his smirk. “What is it?”

“You need to keep your eyes closed. I don't want you to look at me.”

Flint reached up to stroke along Silver's cheek, heart racing not only at the prospect of what Silver wanted to do, but at the vulnerability he'd just glimpsed on Silver's face. “All right.”

“You're not going to question it?”

“I know better than to question requests made in these sorts of context.”

Silver gave a little snort – in assent or derision, Flint was never sure. But he kissed Flint again, his fingers closing tighter around Flint's cock. Then Silver's mouth was moving along Flint's jaw, his teeth raking down Flint's throat, his tongue sliding into the dip at the top of Flint's chest, then moving lower still to worry one of Flint's nipples. Flint heard his breath grow rough and sharp, felt himself melting into the heat of Silver's mouth.

“Are your eyes closed?” Silver asked, pressing kisses along Flint's midriff, stroking Flint's hips. Flint's hands had moved down with Silver, still grasping his shoulders like a lifeline while he succumbed to the pleasure that sparked in the wake of Silver's lips.

“They are,” Flint said. And they were, in spite of the temptation to look down and admire Silver likely kneeling before him, all wet curls and hungry mouth.

“Good,” Silver purred, then his mouth slipped underwater to kiss and nibble down Flint's belly.

“Don't you need us to move to shallower water?” Flint asked.

Silver surfaced with a soft splash. “I'm very good at holding my breath, in case you hadn't yet noticed.” His tongue traced a line up Flint's stomach and into his belly button, making Flint squirm pleasurably. “Don't worry about me. Just enjoy it, and keep your eyes shut.”

Flint couldn't help but revel in Silver's bossy tone, at the relief of being told what to do rather than have to give orders. Silver clearly knew this, if the chuckle he gave and the teasing kisses he peppered down Flint's stomach was anything to go by. Soon his mouth reached Flint's hip, and the kisses turned to nips, to light bites down the inside of Flint's thigh. Flint's fingers tangled in Silver's hair, grasping for a purchase, any kind of anchor against the sensation.

Then Silver's tongue was tracing the underside of Flint's cock, and Flint could barely bite back the moan that rose in his throat. As Silver drew close to the tip, Flint heard him emerge from the water, pressing Flint's cock up against his belly, making its head reach just above the waterline. He stayed there for a while, laving Flint with a wicked tongue, teasing at his slit, at his foreskin. Soft sounds, nearly whines, escaped Flint's throat, their sound alien to him after having been silenced for so long.

Silver slipped underwater again in a movement so smooth that it was nearly soundless. Flint wound his hands tight in his curls as Silver's mouth engulfed him, hot and wet, his tongue flicking at the underside of Flint's cockhead. Flint's knees wobbled; he squeezed Silver's locks in his fists, seeing stars in the darkness behind his eyelids. Though Flint couldn't hear him, he could feel the vibration of Silver moaning around him.

The waves licked at Flint's stomach faster as Silver began moving around him, taking him deeper and deeper into his mouth. Flint could barely stand it, the exquisite pressure of Silver's lips and tongue, and now his throat swallowing him down. He stood lost in an ocean of sensation, floating in the dark with Silver surrounding him, arms wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into Flint's arse. The closer Flint got to the edge, the more intense the sensations became, Silver's throat pulsing hard and fast, water rushing along Flint's cock with every pull of Silver's mouth, as though he were drinking down seawater. All of this seemed impossible, surely Silver would have been drowning… but Silver showed no sign of distress, and Flint was too far gone to question it. He let himself rush to the edge, eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open in a soundless cry as he spilled himself down Silver's throat.

Flint all but lost his balance when Silver released him, his eyes snapping open automatically. There was a shimmering texture under the surface of the water, but it faded away, leaving only the outline of Silver's legs. Flint's eyes went to Silver, who was untying a silvery pendant from his neck.

Silver chuckled and grasped Flint's waist to help himself stand. “I told you I was good.” He pressed kisses along Flint's jaw, pendant still in hand.

“There's something about you…” Flint started, too dazed to finish his sentence.

“Hmm. It's called talent,” Silver said. “And I don't mind putting it at your service, Captain.”

There had been more kisses after that, and soft conversations, until they returned to the Maroons. Later, there had been a few more occasions to be intimate, in spite of the war brewing. Silver's motives for initiating their intimacy had never been quite clear to Flint at the time. He'd wondered whether it was simply a strategy to avoid Flint's questions about his strange nature. He'd wondered whether it was a strategy to gain control over Flint.

Ten years later, standing in the spot where he and Silver had trained, Flint decided that there had been true fondness between them. It had been marred by Silver's aversion to the war, by Flint's blind rage, by their inability to speak their feelings to each other. It had been marred when Silver had betrayed Flint and Madi and left them bereft of their war.

But years had passed. Flint was healed from his rage, now, as much as he ever would be. And perhaps hearing Thomas state time and again that Silver must have loved him had finally helped the fact enter Flint's doubting heart.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Flint turned to see Madi approaching, a faint smile curling her lip. Her face was as wise and regal as her mother's had been back in the day. Seeing her now made Flint realise how young she had been then, when he'd nearly dragged her into a battle that would have likely resulted in her death.

“I'm glad you did,” Flint said as she walked up to him and looked out at the sea.

“You seem well,” she said. She looked him over, her eyes lingering on his face. “Either my memory is playing tricks on me, or you seem younger than when I last saw you ten years ago.”

An uneasy twitch rippled through Flint's cheek. He said nothing, his eyes still trained on the waves.

“Of all the places on this island, this is where John chose to spend most of his time, although it was a tough climb for him.” Madi said, standing beside Flint. “I suppose he was still seeking your presence here.”

Those words warmed Flint's heart and made it squeeze with grief all at once. He'd written to Madi after he and Thomas had settled in Boston, wanting to find out how it had all ended for the Maroons, for Nassau, for Silver. At the time, Silver had still been living on the island, leading a handful of the old _Walrus_ crew in missions to supply the Maroons. From what Flint had been able to gather, Silver and Madi's relationship had gone from passionate and tormented to cold and distant. And then one day a letter came, announcing Silver's disappearance.

Flint turned to look at Madi. “Was he on these hills, before he left?”

“He was on these hills when we argued for the last time.” She fell silent for a moment, a frown knotting her brow.

“You didn't mean to make him leave,” Flint told her softly.

“I didn't want him gone, but neither did I want him to be near me.” She sighed and shook her head; Flint keenly knew the warring feelings Silver always managed to arouse in people. “To answer your question, he was last seen on that beach, down by the rocks.” Madi pointed to the very beach of Flint and Silver's first intimate encounter. “He vanished into the water. There was no boat, and his old crew was out at sea. Some of my people believe that he drowned.”

“But you don't?”

Madi pouted thoughtfully, then shook her head. “He was too good at surviving to go seeking death. And…” She glanced up at Flint, the same suspicion in her eyes as there had been a decade ago. “Did he ever tell you anything? Did he ever let you see him in the water?”

“I got a few glimpses,” Flint said, his heart drumming faster. “I thought I was imagining things.”

“In my father's pantheon, Yemoja reigns over the water. She is the mother of all things, and many describe her as having the tail of a fish. If we believe that she exists, why would those that you call mermaids not be of her kin?”

“I never lent much credence to that sort of thing,” Flint admitted. “A seal or a dolphin could just as well be mistaken for a mermaid, with a little help from a bottle of rum. And he was a man who walked on land – most of the time, anyway.”

“A clever disguise, perhaps,” Madi said. “Or a dual nature, that allows him to shift from one to the other.”

“Like the myth of Melusine. Married to a lord, hiding her dual nature, and fleeing when it was finally revealed.”

Madi nodded thoughtfully. “I see that you too have been reading up on sea-dwellers. I have found little beyond the Greek classics.”

“There were many tales of mermaids in Cornwall, where I was born. Few of them have been recorded in writing.”

“And are there tales of men who control the seas?”

Flint raised his eyebrows.

“John told me many a time about how you created a storm while you were raging, and how you becalmed your own ship while you were grieving. And then, how you set it in motion again, when you found hope.”

The conversation Flint had shared about this with Silver long ago flitted back through his mind. He'd scoffed at him then. Perhaps he simply hadn't wanted to hear it.

“He told me that one night he attempted to swim away from you, only to be dragged back into your arms.”

Flint hadn't imagined that Silver had told Madi about their relationship, and promptly felt a blush burning its way up his cheeks. Silver certainly hadn't told Flint about his relationship with Madi, after all, leaving him to discover how intimate it was only when Silver was reunited with her after his return from the sea.

“And you do not age,” Madi added, looking him over again with curiosity. “If John is of the merfolk, what does this make you?”

“I'm not sure. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“Are there no gods of storms and seas? Did Poseidon not beget Theseus, after all?”

Flint snorted. “I would have hoped the offspring of a Greek god wouldn't burn under the bright sun like I do.”

“You make light of it, but you do not deny the possibility,” Madi replied with a smirk. “There are many gods in this world, some old and forgotten, some still very much alive.”

“You didn't use to be this superstitious,” Flint remarked, aware he was being indelicate, and yet unable to keep the thought to himself.

“Or perhaps you did not use to know me very well,” Madi returned sharply. “There are things too sacred to my people to be shared with those of your kind. Be assured, though, that many deities were called upon to keep us safe when we were battling Rogers.”

Somewhat chastised, and unwilling to argue about the truth of such beliefs, Flint merely gave a nod.

“Are you seeking him, or are you seeking answers about yourself?” Madi asked.

Flint gave a shrug. “Both, I suppose.” He sighed, realising that wasn't quite true. “Him. Him, especially. The only leads I have about beings that turn from mer-person to human come from the Old World.”

“Then you know that you must return to your homeland, and start your search from there. Why did you stop by here?”

“In your last letter you mentioned that you may not stay here much longer. I wanted to see you again, in case you left before I returned.”

Madi nodded. “The treaty may not hold long now that Rogers is to return to Nassau. Many have fled already.”

Flint tasted bile at the back of his throat. He forced it down, along with the anger roiling inside him. This was no longer his battle, but the rage still simmered close to the surface. By the curl of Madi's lip, Flint knew she felt the same as he did.

“What will you do?”

“My mother grows old, and she longs to return to the land where she was born, east of the Volta river.”

When Madi said nothing more, Flint raised his eyebrows. “And you?”

“I am not certain. There is difficulty and danger anywhere we go, whether in my mother's land or another.”

“Difficulty and danger never stopped you before,” Flint said with a smile.

Madi glanced up. Her smile was sad. “That was a time when I hoped to change the world, rather than accept it as it is.”

“You do know there are free people of your kind in Boston? Thomas was adamant I remind you of it, and of his offer to assist you, were you to join him there.”

“Yes, James, I know how much your great humanitarian wants to save us.” Madi's eyes twinkled in spite of her disdainful tone.

Flint couldn't help but chuckle. “He longs to meet you, you know.”

“I do not doubt it.” Madi's smile turned warmer. “And I shall consider it.”

They turned again to the sea. Foam frothed merrily as the waves crested, and Flint couldn't help but think back to Madi's words about his disappearance. He desperately hoped that Silver still lived, somewhere beneath those waves, and that in time he would surface again.


	3. Chapter 3

“They say, right, they say that a mermaid can fall in love with a mortal.”

Scoffing and laughter rose in the quiet inn. A few men good-naturedly berated the storyteller, Mr Trelawny. He was a regular at the inn, often sailing in from Penzance to buy wares in Bristol.

“T'isn't love,” one of the men said. “They get their claws into a pretty young man and drag him down into the depths and from there, straight to hell! Remember what happened in Zennor!”

“A sailor I know told me his great-grandfather saw the mermaid of Zennor off Pendour Cove,” another man said. This was met with snickering. “It's true! She came out of the waters to beg them to raise their anchor, 'cause it was blocking the entrance to her home and she couldn't get to her children.”

Silver was idly listening to the chatter as he wiped glasses behind the bar. He heard mermaid stories every other week, especially if he had Cornish or Irish guests. He'd learned to detach from them and take the stories for exactly what they were: legends, misunderstandings of things humans had seen – often while more or less drunk – and wishful thinking.

A few stories did strike home all the same. The glass squeaked when Silver wiped its rim a little harder than necessary on hearing the detail about the mermaid's children, for example. But overall, he didn't mind anymore. They knew nothing of value about him or any of the merfolk Silver had encountered over the years.

“Well, I met a man who said a mermaid did fall in love with a mortal,” Trelawny insisted. “He said she found a sea captain who was drowning and she brought him back to land and gave him a mermaid's kiss to revive him.”

There were still some chuckles, but quieter, more curious than mocking. Silver couldn't help but listen in on the conversation, his heart foolishly beating faster at the mere mention of a mermaid and a captain.

“And he said, right, he said the mermaid stayed by the Captain after that and she saved him from all sorts of dangers while he waged a war. She even lost half of her tail one time to prove her loyalty to him and his crew.”

“How'd that happen, then?” asked one of the men.

“Eh… well, I think it was something about a shark. The man definitely said something about a shark.”

“Sounds about right, they'll take a bite out of anything.”

“Or was it a meat cleaver?” Trelawney mused. “There was something about the mermaid being a disaster in the kitchen.”

Surely, Silver was dreaming. He glanced down at himself, took in his stump, and supposed that it couldn't be a dream after all. He usually had both legs or all of his tail, when he dreamed.

“But the thing is, right, the Captain had lost his sweetheart and was in mourning, so he didn't even notice her, really. Besides, who'd fall in love with a mermaid, right?”

“Well the boy from Zennor, for one, if he fathered the mermaid's children,” said the man who was stubbornly clinging to his grandfather's version of the story.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mr Trelawny continued, “The mermaid was cursed, like. She couldn't ever speak what was in her heart. Struck mute, probably. So when the mermaid realised the Captain could never love her back, she went looking for his lost sweetheart and reunited them. But her heart was broken when she saw them together, and so she vanished, turned into sea foam.”

How? How on earth could the story be both so accurate and so deformed? Silver's nostrils flared, colour rose in his cheeks and he clung to the bar as he swayed dizzily. He could barely breathe, he could barely stand being in the same room as these people for fear of bursting into screams – or sobs.

“You sure she didn't drown the Captain to reunite him with his sweetheart? You said she was dead, after all,” said the man who thought mermaids dragged people into hell.

“Er. I'm pretty sure he said they were both alive.”

“Well, what would he know? She was probably just biding her time just so's she could sink his ship and devour his men.”

“You know, I liked my story a lot better before you piped up, Will,” Mr Trelawny said, downing his cider.

The men chuckled, then another one started talking about some unlikely beast he'd sighted off the coast of Ireland – probably a whale, but he swore it was a monstrous squid – and Silver finally managed to catch his breath.

Who was this man who was going around telling Silver and Flint's story? True, there had been dozens of men – and women – who could have got a glimpse of Silver's scales or tail. He'd been as cautious as he could, but someone may have seen him, especially when he went swimming on Maroon Island, or beside the Walrus.

Most of those who could have known were sitting in that very room, drinking themselves into a stupor. Silver's eyes lingered on Israel Hands, who always seemed to know more than he cared to share, but he doubted Hands would have spoken so kindly of Flint, even ten years later. He doubted anyone he'd ended up taking back with him from the West Indies would have spoken so kindly about Flint.

Which left only Madi and whoever she might have confided in on Maroon Island, Flint himself and perhaps Thomas Hamilton, if Flint had shared his story with him. Silver's chest ached at the thought of Flint telling anyone about their relationship, both with terror and with longing.

“Excuse me Mr Trelawny,” Silver said in his most congenial tone, placing a fresh mug of cider on Trelawny's table. At Trelawy's questioning glance, Silver added: “It's on the house.”

“Why, that's very generous of you, Mr Silver,” the man said with a smile.

“Anything for my loyal customers,” Silver replied. “But I was wondering if you could help me with a small matter. A trifle, really.”

Trelawny's face instantly turned suspicious. “No harm in asking, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” Silver plastered on his best grin, so charming that it made his face ache. “I was wondering who told you the mermaid story. I found it truly compelling.”

“Oh, that!” Realising Silver's request wasn't going to cost him anything, Trelawny relaxed and sipped at his cider. “T'was a man who said he was collecting mermaid stories. Heard him speaking in a pub in Penzance.”

Silver nodded pleasantly, the picture of nonchalance, even though his stomach sank. Likely some scholar, then. Some rich man with nothing better to do. “Was he from around there?”

“You know, it's quite curious. He understood the local talk well enough, but he sounded, well…” Mr Trewlawny scratched his head. “He sounded like the lads what come back from the Navy to visit their mam and put on airs and a plummy accent.”

A sick, terrifying feeling started to churn in Silver's belly. “Can I ask you what he looked like?”

“He was a redhead,” Trelawney said instantly. “Freckles everywhere, still wearing a beard though it's long been out of fashion.”

Silver could barely breathe at this point. He tried to keep a neutral expression, although he was boiling inside.

“I suppose he was about forty, quite tall, carried himself like an officer too, you know, stick straight, hands behind his back.”

_It's him_. The thought rang through Silver's mind like a thousand bells, terrifying, elating. “Did he give his name?”

“Erm...” Trelawny scratched his head. “Can't say I recall, I'm afraid. Why are you asking, Mr Silver?”

Silver gave a tense smile, the lie making itself up the moment he opened his mouth. “I like that sort of story, and I hear a fair few. I wondered if I could assist him with some of my own.”

“Well if I see him again, I could send him here, I suppose,” Mr Trelawny offered.

“Of course,” Silver said, tightening his grip on his crutch as he felt his knee go weak. “Yes, that would be fine.”

The rest of the evening was a blur. Silver knew that he rang the last round, that he got everyone out of the bar room. He was certain that he finished his chores though he probably didn't do them very well, and made small talk with his old crew though he couldn't remember a word he'd said, and that somehow he got upstairs and into his room.

Only then did he crack, curling up to sob into the soft mattress. It went on for hours, as though a well inside of him had suddenly overflowed. He had fallen asleep crying many a time, but it was the first time he stayed awake, tormented by the questions roiling in his mind.

Why was Flint telling the story, what he was doing in Cornwall? Was he there with Thomas? Silver would probably have been alerted by his contacts if both Flint and Thomas had left Boston. What if something had happened to Thomas? A breakdown of their relationship? Worse? Again, Silver supposed his contacts would have let him know if Thomas had died. On the other hand, letters from the New World could easily get lost or delayed. Now Silver regretted leaving Maroon Island and starting a whole new life in Bristol. It was peaceful enough, but too far from those he still cared about.

Because he did. Few nights went by where Silver didn't dream of Madi's skin pressed against his, a comfort that he could barely express with words, that made him feel whole and alive. Few nights went by where he didn't dream of Flint's arms wrapped around him, the steady beating of his heart in Silver's ear a reassuring lullaby. His heart burned and clenched every time he broke out of his fantasy to find his bed empty and cold.

He'd loved them so much. He'd loved them and he'd made bloody sure they couldn't love him in return. He'd known how Madi would react to his putting an end to the war, known that resentment and betrayal would fester until he couldn't bear the sight of her anymore. The fact it lasted as long as it did was a miracle, but every day they spent together had also simmered with grief and resentment.

And he'd known, the moment Flint had talked about Thomas, that Flint could never be his. Flint might have clung to Silver as though he were some kind of anchor to humanity, but Silver doubted that there had been any space in Flint's heart for love. There was fire and war and revenge and grief in there, and the only way to extinguish it was for Silver to let him go.

Had he truly extinguished it? Had Flint's savage, vengeful nature been roused by the loss of Thomas? Or was it still burning after all these years? What if he were seeking revenge over Silver at this very moment, luring him in with a mermaid story in order to find him and kill him?

It didn't matter. Silver rolled onto his back, staring into the darkness of his room. It didn't matter why Flint was trying to find him, or whether he even was. Silver had to see him. Now that he was this close, Silver couldn't bear for them to be apart.

“Mr Trelawny?” Silver called out when he saw the man come downstairs the next morning. He'd been waiting for him since before dawn, slumped on one of the benches in the inn.

“Ah, Mr Silver. I hope you didn't think I was going to leave without settling my bill.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Silver said with a strained grin. “I was wondering if you could spare a place for me on your ship back to Penzance.”

Mr Trelawny blinked, clearly taken aback by the request. He gave a shrug. “I don't see why not. I may have to ask for a small fee, of course…”

“Of course,” Silver repeated, trying not to sound cynical. You never got anything for nothing in this world. “I'll let you think about it while I prepare breakfast.”

It wasn't long until Silver was sailing again. He'd left the Spyglass Inn to Max, his partner in this new venture, who'd sailed back with him when rumours of Rogers' return spread into Nassau. She'd been put out by Silver's sudden need to leave for Cornwall, curious about his reasons, insulted that he wouldn't share them. Callous as it was, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was too busy thinking of how to find out about Flint's whereabouts.

They reached Penzance the next morning. Thanks to Trelawny – and the generous tip Silver offered – Silver found the inn where Flint had been asking questions. Flint wasn't there, of course. Silver shouldn't have been disappointed, but his stomach flopped as though it had been filled with lead.

Still, it wasn't all fruitless. The innkeeper directed Silver to an old man sitting in a corner, Mr. O'Duggan. He and Flint had apparently spoken quite a lot before Flint had left.

“He's barmy,” the innkeeper told Silver. “But he's got a few good stories in him.”

Silver approached the man, offered to buy him a drink, and slid into the chair opposite him uninvited. He didn't feel like beating around the bush.

“Mr O'Duggan? I was wondering if you could help me find someone.”

The man's hair was snowy white, his skin wrinkled and covered in freckles. “And who would that be, lad?” he asked, milky-blue eyes not quite focusing on Silver.

“He's a collector of stories. The barkeep tells me that this man told you a story about a mermaid.”

“Ah! Yes, the _m_ _urúch_ story.”

“The what?”

“Merrow,” O'Duggan said. “The ones what wear a fish skin when they go swimming in the deep. Men often steal their skin from them, so as to keep them on land with them.”

Silver froze. Reflexively, he reached for his pendant. His trembling fingers brushed against the scaly fabric embedded in a silver frame. It was still there. He wasn't trapped like his mother had been.

“Right. The merrow,” Silver said. “A man came talking to you about a merrow.”

“Aye, one who loved a sailor and saved him from harm. Twas a good story. Sad, you know.”

A horrible smile curled Silver's lips as he tried to blink back tears. “I was wondering if you know where that man is now.”

The old man cocked his head. “What's your business with him, lad?”

A million lies flew through Silver's mind, but his mouth decided to speak the truth. “I think he's a friend of mine. Someone I haven't seen in a long time.”

O'Duggan turned his face towards Silver. He might have been half-blind, or perhaps half-senile, but his gaze was suddenly sharp.

“This man traded story for story. The _m_ _urúch_ story for Manannán mac Lir's.”

“The… excuse me?”

“He wanted to know about men of legend who could control the seas. The only one I could think of is Manannán mac Lir. Son of a sea god, you see.”

Silver blinked. Memories of how treacherous and unpredictable the sea became in the presence of Flint flooded his mind. He particularly remembered that wave curling around him, tugging him until he was wrapped around Flint and had nowhere to go except into his Captain's arms. He remembered the frantic swell of waves as Flint's pleasure crested, and how quiet everything had gone afterwards.

“Is there any chance you can tell me where this man went?”

“Aye.” O'Duggan smiled. “If you'll tell me something about merrows in return.”

Silver's blood ran cold. He could still leave. After all, perhaps Flint had only told the story as a payment, and hadn't at all been looking for Silver. But if he revealed himself to a stranger–

“What makes you think I know anything about merrows?” Silver asked in spite of his better judgement.

O'Duggan chuckled. “Just an old man's feeling, lad.”

“What would you like to know?” Silver asked, telling himself that fleeing remained an option at any given moment.

“D'you think that merrow truly disappeared in the sea foam forever?”

It was an easy enough question to answer, Silver realised. “Well, does it matter?” he asked with a grin. “What makes the better story? I rather like a tragic ending, myself.” Something crumbled in Silver's resolve when he met the old man's eyes, gazing intently into his with a hope Silver didn't quite understand.

“I don't know, lad. I've always been partial to an unlikely reunion in the end, myself.”

“Right,” Silver all but whispered, swallowing down a lump in his throat. “Well, I don't think that merrows can turn into sea foam. I'm not even sure they can die, unless they are killed. And grief never killed a merrow – not when she was kept from the sea, not when she was made to bear a mortal's child, not when she left that child behind to return to the water. Of that, I'm fairly certain.”

O'Duggan nodded thoughtfully. “Tis as I thought.” He took a sip of his drink. “There are many places someone could look to find out about Manannán mac Lir. The story's all over Ireland, after all, and further, into Scotland and its islands.”

He might as well have told Silver that Flint was somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. All of Ireland? Scotland, the Hebrides, the Orkney Islands… how much further still? How on earth was Silver to guess Flint's whereabouts?

“I'd start with Ireland, though,” O'Duggan said. “Your friend's likely to have told his story in Dublin or Cork, too, eh?”

It felt as though Silver had been frozen, frozen for minutes, frozen for a whole decade, and now he was starting to thaw. He was still numb and cold, but hopeful. He'd find Flint. He'd find him even if he had to search every single island in these godforsaken seas.

He'd find him, and he'd tell him what he'd never been able to say back then.

* * *

The waves crashed into the craggy cliffs, slow, relentless. Flint was treading water a little further away, watching the hypnotic rhythm. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the movement, willing it to slow, to become a gentle caress on the rocks.

For as long as he held the image in his mind, the waters went quiet, lightly lapping at the cliffs and at his skin. He drew a breath, opening his eyes, and let the currents resume their natural course.

There was little doubt anymore that Silver had been right about his ability to control the waters. Sadly, it was the only thing that Flint had been able to confirm on this voyage of discovery. Well, that, and the fact that Silver still lived.

He'd followed stories of retired pirates into several cities, and had been sure, so sure, that he'd found Silver. Israel Hands and a few of the Walrus' old crew haunted an inn near the port. After some rather aggressive questioning, Flint had found out the inn was owned both by both Silver and Max, freshly escaped from Nassau. But Silver had left suddenly without saying where he was going, several weeks before Flint had arrived in Bristol.

Silver probably didn't want to be found. He'd likely heard that Flint was searching for him, and done his best to avoid him. Flint was too tired to try and force a meeting between them. If Silver wanted to forget their bond, so be it.

Flint turned onto his back in the freezing sea, heart throbbing bitterly at the thought. The waters were cold, but he'd discovered that tolerating this was part of his abilities. He'd shiver from washing his face from a basin of cold water, shudder and shake in a blizzard, but he could spend any amount of time in the freezing sea without coming to any harm.

It was late summer, and he'd spent half a year searching for answers. He'd traipsed around Ireland and heard a number of legends, but none that truly answered his questions. Now he floated off the shores of the Isle of Man, an entire island named after the son of the sea god Lir, and still his questions remained unanswered. He'd never know for sure what he was and what sort of a god or creature had begot him. He'd accepted it; it was time to go back to Thomas.

Out of the corner of his eye, Flint saw something glitter. He'd been letting the waves carry him wherever they willed while he rested, and found they'd brought him close to a rocky little beach.

They'd brought him to Silver.

Flint could barely believe it. Perhaps fifty yards away, Silver was sitting on a rock, looking out at the sea. The late summer sun made the scales on his tail shimmer like gold. Flint had never seen him in the sunlight, never taken in the long fin that hung loosely down his back, or the silvery-gold pendant that seemed to be encrusted into his chest. The wind played in Silver's long dark curls, and his face was as young as Flint remembered it.

Just as Flint began to wonder if he hadn't dreamed up this vision, Silver's gaze turned towards him. Flint straightened in the water, heart galloping. The waves around him grew wild and foamy. For the longest time they stared at each other, still as statues, Flint's heart filled with exquisite yearning, his eyes brimming with tears.

“You… you fuck!” Silver screamed at him, the great fin on his back flapping open suddenly, putting Flint in mind of a cat puffing up in anger.

A grin split Flint's face, making tears roll down his cheeks, even as Silver climbed off his rock and threw himself into the water.

“Do you have any idea,” Silver shouted as they swam towards each other, “any idea at all of how fucking big Ireland is?!”

Flint didn't quite follow, nor did he care. Silver was shouting at him, and the sound of his voice was a balm to his heart.

“It's huge!” Silver ranted. “And I went all the way around it! I thought I'd never find you! And where the fuck were you hiding? On the fucking Isle of fucking Man!”

Laughter burst out of Flint's chest, and the waves carried him the last few yards that separated him from Silver. He reached for him, wrapped his arms around Silver's shoulders, and squeezed him tight. Silver made a few indignant sounds, then his angrily raised fin snapped closed and Silver started to sob against Flint's shoulder.

Flint held him, carding his fingers through Silver's hair, sea-cold skin warmed by the heat of Silver's tears, and his own. The waters rocked them gently, as if to appease the storm of emotions brought on by their reunion.

“I thought I'd never find you,” Silver whispered against Flint's shoulder.

“Me neither. You weren't in Bristol,” Flint murmured, pressing kisses to the top of Silver's head.

Silver looked up at him, his eyes an impossible shade of blue. “You were in Bristol?”

“I spotted Israel Hands and thought he'd lead me to you, only to find you were gone.” Silver just gaped at him with his mouth open, so Flint added: “Still an ugly fuck, by the way.”

“Jesus!” Silver's arms wound around Flint's neck as he pressed himself entirely against him, the slippery scales of his tail sliding over Flint's thighs. He buried his face into the crook of Flint's neck, his fingers gently stroking the hair at the base of Flint's skull.

“Well, not exactly, but I might be the son of _a_ god,” Flint managed to say, still fighting the feelings surging through him in great crashing waves.

“I love you.” Silver's voice was barely a mumble against Flint's skin, but Flint understood it well enough. Silver kissed up Flint's throat, along his jaw. “I love you. I love you, and I never told you.”

“Well, neither did I,” Flint whispered, cupping Silver's face between his hands and drawing him in for a kiss.

The seas raged around them, frothy and rough, as they devoured each other's lips, clinging to each other in the freezing waters. Flint was glowing inside, hot and victorious and overjoyed. Silver's sucking, biting mouth, the sharpness of his nails digging into Flint's flesh, the possessive curl of his tail around Flint's calf, drove Flint into a frenzy. He had Silver. Silver had him. At last.

“Thomas,” Silver gasped, breaking away from Flint's lips.

“That's not my name,” Flint told him with a smirk, kissing down his throat, sucking at his Adam's apple. Now he could see the flaps opening and closing on the sides of Silver's neck, the gills whose motion explained the impossible sensations when Silver had sucked him off underwater.

Silver chuckled, and moaned, and for a while allowed Flint to lave his throat with the flat of his tongue, tangling his fingers in Flint's hair.

“I meant,” Silver said at last, “what about Thomas? Is he all right?”

Flint looked up at Silver, and saw tension in his face, dread at the possible answer. He slid back up Silver's body and kissed his lips softly. “Thomas is fine. He sent me out to find you.”

Silver's eyes went huge. “What? Why?”

“Because he's had enough of me teasing him with stories of a beautiful mer-person, without ever actually introducing you to him.”

“But…” Silver laughed, and shook his head, and squeezed Flint tighter. “Really?”

“He knew I was missing you,” Flint whispered in Silver's ear, shivering at his own words. Only now, now that Silver was holding him close, did Flint realise just how much he'd missed him. He'd denied it time and again, but Thomas had always seen through it. “He knew I still loved you.”

Silver whimpered and fisted his hands in Flint's hair, his face twisting with anguish. Flint simply kissed him gently, kissed Silver's lips and along his cheeks, kissed salty tears off his face, kissed his temples and his eyelids and his forehead, even as Silver seemed to wrap around him even tighter.

When their mouths met again, the frenzy that had simmered down a little was rekindled tenfold. They kissed with all the longing of a decade without touching each other, mouths and hands hungry for the other. Flint felt something hard shift against his thigh and glanced down at Silver's belly. On either side of his hips were two long fins, and between them was a smooth scaleless area. It was bulging. Flint experimentally touched it with the tip of his fingers and Silver gave a moan as his erect cock slid out from under his fishskin from a slit at his groin. Apart from the folds of its sheath, it was no different from the cock Flint had known when Silver had been in human form.

Flint realised Silver had gone quiet. He looked up to find Silver's face worried and unsure. Flint kissed him, running his fingers down Silver's chest and belly, marvelling at the smooth, slippery texture of his skin. Though the scales themselves were a goldenish tan shade, close to Silver's complexion, they glittered where the sun hit them like as much mother-of-pearl.

“You're so beautiful,” Flint murmured into Silver's ear, brushing his fingers down the side of the fin on Silver's back. “Can I touch you? Is there anything I need to know?”

“You can touch me,” Silver breathed into Flint's ear. “You can do what you like to me, Captain.”

“James,” Flint told him, pressing a kiss to Silver's cheek. “It's James, now.”

“I want you to fuck me, James. Christ, I've been dreaming of it since I met you.”

The waves roared and swirled as Flint and Silver kissed again, desperate and breathless. Flint explored the intricacies of Silver's anatomy, the sheath at the base of his cock, the hole a few inches beneath it. Silver moaned under Flint's touch, his tongue flicking in Flint's mouth, setting his body on fire. The waters may have been cold, but Flint burned with lust against Silver's slippery body.

Silver's clever fingers wrapped around Flint's cock, teasing and stroking until Flint's breath stuttered in his throat and shivers coursed up and down his spine, until he could barely keep from bucking his hips forward into Silver's grip. Then, his mouth still covering Flint's, Silver drew him closer and slid his cock inside the opening in his lower belly.

Flint took one long gasping breath, twitching inside Silver, engulfed in his tight heat. Slowly, they sank underwater even as Flint began to grind his hips forward. Silver's tail curled around Flint's calves and they tumbled down, locked together in a relentless embrace, writhing and thrusting and ecstatic. Flint's fingers tangled in Silver's curls, dug into his hips as he fucked into his slick hole.

Silver's mouth was on his again, dragging in saltwater with every breath through his gills, making sounds that Flint could barely hear for the roar or water in his ears. As they moved, Silver rubbed his cock against Flint's belly, canting his hips desperately for more friction. Flint wrapped him in his fist, jerking him hard and fast, in time with his own desperate thrusts.

Just as Flint's lungs began to burn, and his vision to darken, Silver propelled them up with a powerful flick of his tail. They emerged just as Silver cried out in ecstasy, arcing back over the water, spilling warm seed over Flint's fingers. A few more giddy thrusts and Flint was coming too, moaning into Silver's throat, wrapped around him as though a part of him still feared that Silver would slip away back into the seas.

They hung onto each other as the waves carried them to a nearby beach. They lay there together, fingers twined, exhausted but happy sea creatures washed up on the shore. For a long while there was only the sound of the waves, and the feel of Silver's skin against Flint's.

“My mother was a merrow,” Silver said suddenly, his forehead pressed against Flint's chest. “A mermaid from Ireland or thereabouts.”

Flint didn't move, didn't speak, but felt as though his heart was cracking open at Silver's sudden willingness to talk about what he'd always been unable to voice until then.

“She fell in love with my father, a man who worked in the London dockyards, but he never trusted her. He took her fishskin from her, and she couldn't return to the sea. When I was born, I was born with, well, this.” He gestured towards his tail and fins. “But she quickly removed my fishskin and made it into this pendant, so that I'd always have a choice. My father never found out I wasn't like him.”

Silver pulled the pendant on his chest, peeling it off where it seemed to be attached to his skin. Once it came loose, his scales vanished, his fins slid back under his skin, and he was once again exactly like a human.

“Here.” Silver showed Flint the pendant, a piece of golden scaly skin set in a silver frame. Flint touched it reverently with the tip of his finger, heart galloping at the implications of Silver's gesture. Their gazes met; Silver's eyes were huge, terrified, hopeful.

“I see,” Flint said softly.

“I found my mother's fishskin,” Silver said, a wry smile curling his mouth. “I was always good at snooping around, even as a small child, and found it on accident. I showed it to her and she disappeared into the sea that very night.”

“How old were you?”

“Small. Four, perhaps? Too young to truly understand. My father died a few years later. The orphanage stories weren't entirely lies, you know. I've just never been good at telling stories about myself without embellishing them a bit. Not that anyone but you would believe mine.”

Flint tangled his fingers in Silver's curls, stroking his scalp. His heart ached for Silver's loss, for the decades he'd spent being nobody, lost in a world that didn't understand what he was. That was over now. Flint vowed it to himself.

“For a long time I drifted,” Silver continued. “I looked for my mother in the seas for some time, but merrows don't trust halflings. I got into trouble, I got chased by fucking sharks, and I ended up climbing onto Parish's ship just before you attacked. And then I was in a story. Your story. I had a place, I was there for a reason.” He smiled, kissed Flint's chest. “And you've made sure sailors of all ports know about me now, haven't you?”

“Just a few ports,” Flint said with a smile. “I wanted you to know I was there, and it clearly worked. Besides, it's Thomas' favourite story.”

Silver looked up into Flint's eyes. “You're certain of this? You're sure he'll allow me back into your life? That he'll let me into his?”

“I'm certain of it,” Flint said, leaning down to kiss Silver's forehead. “He'll adore you, and he'll drive you insane by asking you all the most uncomfortable questions, just because he's curious and doesn't have an ounce of tact.”

Silver chuckled. “You're really selling this admirably.”

Flint grinned. “And you'll find that he's a hard man not to like. And that he'll be happy for you to be with me, even if you never grow to like him.”

“You truly choose the strangest people to love, don't you?”

“I choose the best,” Flint replied, and kissed Silver's lips. “Will you come home with me?”

Silver's smile was a bright as the sun. “You try stopping me.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Mermaids? Ach, _ja_ , I have a story about a mermaid,” the fisherman told Thomas Hamilton, who had casually sat his old bones down close to a table of sailors.

“Really? And would you tell an old man a story?”

The twinkle in Thomas' eye hadn't lost its charm, and neither had his smile. The fishermen chuckled.

“My English is not so good to do the story honour,” the man said. He'd arrived with a crew of Prussian and Danish fishermen, keen on fishing cod in seas north of Boston. “But I will try.”

“I'm all ears,” Thomas said, making himself comfortable, hands folded over the top of his cane.

“They say there was a mermaid who fell in love with a prince.”

“A prince, you say? How did that happen?”

“He was the, uh, how do you say? The commander of his father's fleet, I think. And while he sailed to war, she saw him on the deck of his ship and fell in love with him.”

“Remarkable,” Thomas said, and only Silver watching from the bar knew the true meaning of his gleeful smile.

Prussia, Silver thought. The blasted story had made its way to Prussian sailors. And it was his own fault, really.

Silver and Flint had discovered that when one knew which sunken ships to pillage, money was actually rather easy to come by. Flint was good at finding information, and Silver could dive quite easily to salvage anything of worth. It hadn't been long until he, Flint and Thomas were living quite comfortably indeed.

They'd stayed in Boston, where Flint and Thomas had put down roots, but they'd had freedom. Freedom to help Madi and her people, for one, on their voyage back to Africa. With Flint controlling the seas and Silver scouting for danger, they'd ensured that they arrived safely. Silver's heart was still heavy at the memory of leaving her there, never to see her again. But she'd been beautiful as ever, proud and brave as ever, ready for the new possibilities opening to her.

And then Thomas had wished for freedom too, the freedom to travel safely and comfortably in a last grand tour of the Old Continent, like the one he'd done when he was a youth. This time, he wanted to share what he considered the wonders of the continent with Flint and even with Silver. 

They'd been to Belgium, France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, up along the Rhine through Germanic countries, to finish in the Netherlands. Places far from the sea, places Silver had never imagined seeing one day. Definitely places where Silver had never expected to be ravished by Flint's long-lost love. And places where Thomas had told Silver's story to whoever would listen to it, in broken but enthusiastic French or German.

And the story came back afterwards, time and again, year after year, to their home in Boston where Silver had set up an inn, after giving up the one in Bristol to Max and the old crew.

“And so the mermaid followed the prince's ship,” the man continued, “until one day it was sunken in, ah. A battle maybe? Or a big storm. And when the prince fell into the sea, the mermaid pulled him to the shore and kissed him back to life. But when the prince woke up, he didn't see the mermaid. He mistook her for the woman he pined for.”

Silver shot Thomas a withering glare, though Thomas couldn't see it. Flint hadn't ever included that detail in the story they'd told twenty-odd years ago, but Thomas had taken it upon himself to spread his version of the story far and wide. It came back more and more altered every time Silver heard it, to Thomas' great joy.

“What did the mermaid do then?”

“With her fish tail, she could not live on land. But she was so in love with the prince that she went to seek out a witch – or perhaps it was the devil himself – to make a deal.”

Silver raised his eyebrows at Thomas. Thomas looked puzzled and amused. Apparently this element was not his invention.

“The witch offered the mermaid legs, but in exchange, the mermaid would be cursed to be mute. Never could she tell the prince her love for him. He would have to, ah, to guess? To guess her feelings for him and choose to marry her. She would die if he married another woman.”

“I might have mentioned a witch's curse once or twice, back in the day,” Flint whispered into Silver's ear as he passed by with three plates balanced on a platter. He'd apparently been listening from the kitchen door.

“The mermaid agreed to this, so the witch cut her tail in half with a cleaver, and it turned into two legs. But the pain, it was awful for the mermaid. Every step was like a knife cutting her.”

“At least that's fucking accurate,” Silver muttered to himself, moving to collect a pile of dirty glasses. The pain wasn't as bad as it had been when the wound was fresh, but it still gnawed at him on bad days.

“The prince found the mermaid when she was lost and hurting. And he was a kind man so he took her aboard his ship. She made herself useful, warning the men of dangers in the sea. But she never could speak, and he had too much honour to bother her with unwanted feelings.”

Silver clearly heard Flint snort as he returned from serving their patrons.

“Then one day, the woman the prince loved returned. Then the mermaid knew that he would marry that woman and that she was going to die, so she begged the witch for help. The witch offered her this: the mermaid could become a mermaid again if she killed the prince.”

The sailors were entranced, Silver noticed. Something about the story tugged at their heartstrings, and even twenty years later, the thought that his story – altered as it was – could give rise to this sort of empathy made something squirm uncomfortably in Silver's belly.

“Well, Carl? What did she choose?” one of the sailors asked in a thick accent, clearly on tenterhooks.

“Don't be so impatient, Anders,” Carl said with a tut. “The mermaid thought long about it. The prince had betrayed her, after all, and she wanted to live. So she went into his room with a dagger to slit his throat. But he was sleeping peacefully by his new bride, with a smile on his face. The prince was happy and the mermaid decided that it was all that mattered.”

The room had gone entirely silent now. Even Silver waited with bated breath, in spite of knowing exactly how the story was meant to go.

“So the mermaid decided to return to the sea to die. She jumped in and when her body touched the water, she dissolved into sea foam and finally found peace.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, finally breaking the silence in the room. “That was absolutely riveting.”

“Yes, I like your little mermaid story,” the sailor named Anders said. “I'll tell it to my children when I get back home.”

A few more men murmured in agreement. Conversations broke out again, some about the mermaid, some about fishing, one about a giant serpent from hell that terrorised people in Maine. Silver only half-listened, watching Thomas walk, a little stiffly, to the bar.

“Is it me, or is this story getting better every year?” Thomas asked Silver, leaning on the counter.

“You're getting more annoying about it every year,” Silver returned. “And you were already annoying to start with.”

“Oh come now my dear,” Thomas said with a grin. “Surely it's nice to be the stuff of legends, told for generations to come.”

“There are other stories about me out there,” Silver said coolly. “In which I am much more wily and bloodthirsty.”

Thomas laughed. “Was that supposed to sound threatening?”

Silver smiled. How could he not? Flint had been right. Infuriating as Thomas could be at times, it was hard not to like him. It was impossible not to love him.

“This old man bothering you?” Flint asked, nudging Thomas' shoulder with his. He was as handsome as the day Silver had first clapped eyes on him, with his broad shoulders, coppery ponytail and neat little beard. Looking into those eyes still sent a little shiver through Silver, still made his heart flutter.

“What is the point of still being alive at my age if I can't bother the two of you,” Thomas replied, pressing into Flint's touch. Flint glared at Thomas for the unwelcome reminder of Thomas' mortality; Silver just rolled his eyes. Thomas played that card rather too often, especially for someone in such good health.

“I think it's getting past the old man's bedtime,” Silver said. “And definitely mine.”

“All right, all right, I'll go home,” Thomas said with a pacifying smile. “On the condition that you come with me. James can close up tonight.”

Silver concealed a sigh of relief with a grumpy little snort. His back was giving him hell, and he couldn't wait to be soaking in a tub. Thomas likely knew this.

“Fine,” Silver said. He turned to Flint. “No attitude. No brawls. No making us lose customers,” he told him sternly.

“The idea wouldn't cross my mind,” Flint muttered, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

“All right, come along, old man,” Silver called out to Thomas, hobbling to where his coat was hung up. Flint helped him pull it on.

Silver and Thomas set out into the chilly streets of Boston, to the house they called home, a place where both Thomas and Flint seemed to glow with a peaceful sort of happiness. Silver sometimes still couldn't believe that he'd contributed to it. That he was a part of it.

“John?” Thomas said, his arm firmly stuck under Silver's. Silver wasn't sure which of them was propping the other up, though he suspected Thomas was doing more of the heavy lifting than was advised at his age.

Silver looked up into his face, at the kind crinkles around his mouth, his halo of white hair puffing in the breeze, the twinkle in his eyes. “Mm?” was all he managed to say.

“Will you tell me your story again?”

“If I must,” Silver said with a great put-upon huff. Still he felt warm inside as he thought of the moment where he, Flint and Thomas would all be huddled together, warm beneath their blankets. There, safe with his beloved, he didn't entirely mind telling his story over and over.


End file.
